


Petunia's Family Issues

by mzzbee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Divorce, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-Canonical Character Death, Work In Progress, non-can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-03-18 12:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13682133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mzzbee/pseuds/mzzbee
Summary: (Sequel to Petunia's Invitation) Evanses, Dursleys, Weasleys, Potters... All these families, past and present, and all of them a source of some strife or another. Petunia doesn't seem to be able to disentangle herself from any of them.





	1. Paper Work

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress; used to be called Petunia's Papers, which is now roughly equivalent to Chapter 1 (Paper Work) of this extended work.  
> The renovations are now complete - please enjoy, and have a merry Christmas! (Merrier than "some people", anyway ;) Now that I've restarted I'll try to keep adding to the story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petunia meets with Vernon to give him the divorce forms in person. Vernon reacts pretty much as you'd expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter 1 (Paper Work) used to be an entire Work called Petunia's Papers. I've added to it because people kept complaining that it was too short :D <3 Comments prior to December 2018 may therefore be strange in the context in which they appear.)

The sun warmed Petunia’s back so thoroughly that her blouse was beginning to stick. Nervously she shifted the stack of papers she carried in the crook of her arms, safely contained in a file folder, and after a brief moment to steel herself rang the doorbell of the house she had left months before.

After a longish wait, Vernon opened the door. He was still in his striped pyjamas although it was well past noon on this beautiful Sunday. When he saw her he straightened forbiddingly and scowled.

“So,” he growled. “You’re back, are you?”

Petunia's lips tightened. She had expected him to be angry, of course, so his closed expression of hurt pride was no surprise. Besides, it was better than him abjectly apologising and begging her to return—at least now she had less qualms about saying what needed to be said.

“I’m not back,” she said. “I want a divorce.”

Vernon’s eyes widened. He spluttered indignantly, looked around outside the house and grabbed her wrist.

“Sshhh!” he hissed and pulled her inside before the neighbours could hear. Strange how the thought, once so mortifying as to be debilitating, now had no power over Petunia whatsoever. But she didn't resist, just followed Vernon inside and let the door close behind her.

The hall was filthy. The floor was marked by muddy footsteps, three binliners full of trash were waiting to be taken out, the windows were dingy and the house stank of dirt and sweat. Petunia wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“You must be out of your mind. You can’t divorce me,” Vernon said, as though stating a self-evident truth. “Just think what that would do to my career!”

“I’m quite certain your career would recover,” Petunia sighed and tried not to let the reflexive twinge of guilt prick her too deep.

“And when you come to your senses, you’ll see you’d be no better off, either. What would you live on, all by yourself? Someone needs to earn all that money you throw away every month!”

“I have a job,” Petunia replied frostily, “and I can live frugally if I choose.”

Vernon chewed on his cheek as his scowl deepened. He ran a hand over his combed-over hair. “But you wouldn’t have to! I don’t understand why you even left. We had a good life, and then you were just… gone!” His voice rose into a plaintive squawk.

Petunia cringed as her heart went out to him a little bit. Was it his fault, after all, that she was a different person from who he thought he was marrying? She cast about for something comforting to say when his next words wiped away all sympathy.

“What about Dudley, eh?” Vernon waved his hands for dramatic effect, missing the vase set on the end pillar of the banister by half an inch. ”You even left your own son! You’re an unfit mother.”

“Dudley’s not a child anymore,” Petunia snarled, but in point of fact Vernon had hit her square in the most painful spot of her heart.

“And you have no grounds for divorce,” Vernon continued unpleasantly. “I haven’t deserted you, I haven’t been _unreasonable_ —whatever that means—and I’ve never messed around. So there.”

So there. Petunia stared at him in shock as his words sunk in. She had foreseen that this would be difficult, but all her imagined and rehearsed conversations had ended with Vernon acknowledging the impossibility of them ever living together again, and agreeing to file jointly for divorce, or at least not to contest it.

“Then you divorce me,” she said. “You have grounds.”

Vernon snorted. “Your gallivanting around London isn’t desertion, it’s just… larks. You’ll come back when your money runs out, and it will.”

“I make a living on my own. I have a flat of my own,” she pointed out furiously. “I’m not _gallivanting_ , don’t you realise I haven’t been back here since…”

“You’re back here now,” Vernon said as if she had just proved his point. Petunia scoffed.

Vernon growled and stalked off into the living-room, and flopped down into his favourite chair.

How could she explain, without telling him about her newfound abilities? Ironically, finding out that she could do magic was the one thing that certainly would make him divorce her, but it was also the one thing she could not bring herself to reveal—not when it was all so new and unsettled. She drew breath for a frustrated sigh, when it hit her that she could tell him something else and it would actually have the desired effect. She breathed out carefully and sat down on the edge of the sofa. Could she say it out loud? Would she dare? She hardly even knew, until the words came out of her mouth.

“I wasn’t faithful.”

Vernon failed to explode, merely snorted again and picked up his paper.

“Did you hear me? I said I’ve been with someone else,” she said, enunciating clearly, determined to get some sort of reaction from him now that the words were really out between them.

“That’s just pathetic, making up lies like that,” Vernon declared from behind the front page of _The_ _Daily Mirror_. “You’re not as young as you used to be. For all I know you dreamed it.”

All of Petunia’s sympathy for him evaporated. “I am not making anything up!” she hissed, livid.

He peered around the edge of the paper with a superior expression and just looked at her for two or three long seconds. “Who’s it supposed to be, then?” he asked.

“That’s my business,” she bit out.

Vernon snorted yet again. It made him sound like a pig. “You _are_ making this up.”

“An old friend,” she said, face burning. She fought to meet his gaze evenly. “I met him through Lily and James.”

Vernon gasped. Suddenly furious, he shot from his chair, eyes almost popping from his head and his face fire-engine red, as though the very idea was boiling his brain.

“One of THEM???” he roared. He shoved his face right into hers, smelling of stale beer and sweat. Petunia flinched back in shock. “I thought you were different from that sister of yours! After all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?”

She felt fury rise from inside her and fought to keep calm. Gulping for air she took a few steps back and rummaged in her handbag. Her trembling fingers brushed her wand but she snatched them away—exploding husbands remained a bad idea for all concerned. Instead she took several deep breaths and wordlessly handed Vernon the deceptively light sheaf of divorce application papers.

“All you have to do is sign these. I can fill them in and take them to the post office for you.”

Vernon was immediately suspicious. “You’re trying to skin me, aren’t you?” he said. “Trying to take whatever you can get. It won’t work…”

“You can have the house,” she interrupted him. “You can have whatever of mine is still here after I leave—I just want some clothes and pictures from upstairs, nothing of value. I don’t care. You get everything.”

He refused to let her fill in the papers, of course. While he was going through them and ticking check marks and answering questions with his clumsy fingers, Petunia went upstairs to pack some more clothes, this time making sure to include enough shoes, and searched every single pocket and drawer for the loose change and the occasional banknote she was in the habit of sowing around her habitations. She had taken most of the picture albums when she first left, but she picked up a few more from Dudley’s—and Harry’s—early years.

On the upstairs landing she glanced at the entrance to the attic and her hand twitched towards the doorknob, but she drew back at the last second. Nothing was there, she had made sure to empty out anything and everything that indicated magic had ever been used there.

When she returned downstairs she found Vernon signing the bottom of the last page.

“And good riddance,” he growled as he shoved them at her. “I should never have got involved with a family like yours. Should have known better. And another thing. You’re a bad influence on Dudley, so don’t even think you’ll ever see him again!”

Petunia gasped in shock. “You can’t forbid us from meeting,” she said. “He’s of age.”

Vernon leaned closer. “When I tell him what you just told me, _do you really think he’ll want to see you?_ ” Vernon straightened his back, clearly satisfied. “That’s got you!”

It was all she could do not to break down, claim it was all a lie and beg Vernon to take back his words. She thought about the wand in her purse and wished she could use it to fling some ornaments at Vernon’s stupid head. A mental image of Gramma’s exploding husband flitted past her eyes again and now held a certain charm.

She held in the tears, not wanting to give Vernon the satisfaction of seeing her cry, and kept them back even after the door had closed behind her. On her way to the railway station she spotted a post box and stopped to stuff the divorce papers in the envelope she had brought, written and stamped, and dropped it in the box. And then she sat down on the kerb beside the post box and let the anger and frustration and fright, the failure and bad judgments and time wasted wash over her and cried.

And when she was done, she dried her tears, washed her face at the ladies’ room in a nearby pub, reapplied her makeup and went to see Dudley. She would simply explain everything to him before Vernon got a word in. She had always been able to handle Dudley, ultimately.

 


	2. Moving Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petunia helps Harry move to his own flat, but first there's somewhere they need to go. Harry finds out more than Petunia wants him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2/?

 

In hindsight, it was impossible to understand how no one had thought of it instantly. Harry and all the Weasleys, with Petunia an intermittent correspondent, had been cheerfully planning a gigantic shopping excursion to acquire furniture, appliances, utensils and all the other things Harry would need when he moved to his own flat, but it had actually been Dudley who had first said, on the phone with Petunia: “Why doesn’t he get his parents’ things?” Harry’s expression, when Petunia had asked him, had been a sight to see.

The Magical Heritage Foundation and the Godric’s Hollow Museum board of trustees had, Arthur told Petunia, gone apoplectic at the thought of anyone removing items from the property, but no one could dispute the fact that the cottage and its contents were the sole property of the previous owners’ son. In the end, the authorities had contented themselves to pleading with Harry not to empty the building altogether, and Harry had promised to take only what he needed.

“I don’t know why I’m even doing this,” Harry frowned as he peered into the murky October day outside the windshield of the modest van he had rented; Petunia had been surprised to discover he had taken the time to obtain a driving licence, but it was certainly useful now. They were some two hours out of Plymouth Station where she had arrived by train rather than sit all day in a car. “The cottage isn’t in good shape and it hasn’t been touched in years. Everything’s full of mold anyway.”

“Lily called the house Deer Pen. I have no idea why,” Petunia said and cleared her throat when her voice broke slightly.

Instead of manifesting some nobler emotion, her nephew snorted with laughter. “Right,” he choked. Petunia waited for him to explain futher but he did not.

“Have you been back there?” Petunia asked when the silence had gone on too long.

“Once,” he said curtly. “Didn’t go in.”

“I’ve never been at all,” Petunia said and examined her gloved hands. The unheated van was chilly and warranted both them and her hat, although Harry wore neither. He turned on the wipers as the windshield filmed over with a fine drizzle of rain.

 

The sight of the house was an almost physical blow in Petunia's face. The overgrown garden, the holes in the roof, the gutted second storey... everything drove home the fact that a happy family no longer lived here. The sense of gloom was magnified by the directionless mist of rain.

Everyone else seemed to feel it as well. Arthur, Ron, Hermione and Bill, who had Apparated here ahead of Petunia and Harry, stood at the gate with a still, muted look to them. Ron came up to the moving van looking slightly ill.

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron said as they disembarked. “Is there anything left in there?”

“I hope so.” Harry's voice was rough. “The flat's a lot smaller than a house. I just need a table, some chairs, a bed...”

Petunia opened an umbrella. It didn't keep the rain off at all.

“It’s a good job you weren’t planning to live here,” Bill said. “After all this time, the house would need to be completely rebuilt, protective spells or not.”

“That, and it's a tourist attraction,” Harry said and pointed at a sign near the front gate. _The house of Lily and James Potter_ , it read, followed by a description of the events of the fateful night that was almost as brief and sketchy as Petunia's own information.

“We came here once,” Bill said. “Remember, Dad? You took the lot of us to see the house when Ginny was about three or four...”

“I remember,” Arthur said quickly, sounding abashed. “Right, you’ve got the keys, Harry?”

Petunia couldn't catch his eye. What an odd thought, to picture all the Weasleys here sightseeing. What had been running through Arthur’s mind then? If Ginny had been born, it would have been long after… everything. She flushed and looked away.

Harry unlocked the front door. For a few seconds he paused and looked inside, standing transfixed in the doorway. His face was hidden but the set of his shoulders spoke eloquently.

Then Ron, like the soul of consideration that he was not, nudged him impatiently, and Harry shook himself out of whatever nightmare had momentarily overtaken him. They tiptoed inside. Arthur lit the hall lamp with a flick of his wand and the yellow light reflected from dust and spider webs, though again not nearly as many as might have been expected of a house abandoned to the elements seventeen years ago.

The air inside was musty but the damage was nowhere near as bad as Petunia had feared. The furniture and wallpaper on the ground floor were in quite good condition. She peered around curiously. She had never set foot in this house, ever, when Lily was alive, and perhaps it should have felt intrusive to do so now, but instead she was comforted and warmed by the familiar touch in the choices of interior and furnishings.

Ron sneezed, puffing up a cloud of dust. Quick as a thought, Bill waved his wand and collected the dust into a neat little ball that hit Ron on the temple.

“Oi!” the latter yelped. Harry laughed, and just like that the awkwardness and awe passed and they were merely a group of friends and relatives helping one of their number to move his furniture.

“Let's go take a look at the dining table first,” Harry said. “Hermione, could you help Aunt Petunia get the moving boxes from the car?”

Soon the campaign was well underway. Petunia had come prepared with buckets, brooms and mops, but found that the spells of the others made much shorter work of the cleaning. For a while she stood aimlessly in the middle of the floor, feeling quite out of place, but then decided to find another way to be useful by boxing up Lily’s and James’s personal belongings. The clothes she left, apart from a scarf of Lily's that she decided she would ask Harry for, but the bookshelves were filled with bric-a-brac, papers and scrolls and photo albums, and these she began to stuff into cardboard boxes.

The others would probably have much quicker ways of packing, she reflected sourly. Just a whisk of the wand and the shelves would be empty... She paused. There was that one spell, one of the first she had practiced... She peered around the living-room, empty of observers, and took out her wand.

“Accio albums!” she whispered and gave the wand a twist. Every last one of the photo albums shot off of the shelf and straight at her, and she barely had time to yelp and duck as they hit the opposite wall with a thump. One album sprang open and rained its pictures all over the living-room.

There was a muted snicker from the door. As luck would have it, Harry and Ron were carrying chairs past the doorway at the worst possible time. The latter's face was screwed up in a giggle-blocking grimace and he hastily ducked away out of sight. Petunia's face burned with embarrassment.

“You have to aim, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said and came into the room, setting down the chairs. Either he really wasn't laughing on the inside or he was hiding it very well. Petunia suppressed the urge to explain that she had managed this spell perfectly well before, thank you, and would just need a few more attempts. ”Look at what you're calling or picture it in your mind really clearly. And don't wave your arm so much. Here, like this.” He demonstrated. Very self-consciously she imitated him until he nodded. ”Try it.”

She faced the pile of albums by the wall and focused very clearly on just one. ”Accio album,” she said and twirled the wand again. The topmost album flew from the pile much more sedately and she caught it from the air. Even Harry seemed slightly taken aback for a second.

“All right!” he grinned. ”You're getting the hang of it! Let's get these photos sorted out...” 

“I can do that,” Petunia said but he had already grabbed a pile of pictures from the floor. She squatted down awkwardly to collect her share of the photos of Lily and James and a selection of their old school friends smiling and waving or striking silly poses against the backdrop of an intact Hogwarts. There was the Quidditch pitch, James posing before it in full Seeker regalia. And that was Lily herself with some other girls on the very steps where Harry had received his diploma a few weeks ago.

Behind her, Harry gasped. Petunia looked up to see him staring at a photo in wide-eyed shock quickly replaced by confused anger.

He stalked to her and threw the picture down on the pile in front of her, eyes blazing with fury.

“That,” he growled, “is Mr Weasley, isn't it. With you.”

There really was no denying it. Her heart turned over. In the picture, moving as wizard photos did, Arthur was listening intently to Petunia explaining something; to the best of her memory, it had been about how the thermos he was holding worked. Then they both looked up with smiles on their very young faces, waved at whoever was taking the picture—Lily, surely—and went back to being preoccupied with each other and, quite incidentally, the thermos. That had been the picnic behind the house, when they had packed a huge lunch and spent most of the afternoon eating and being silly. The day before Molly's owl had arrived.

“Yes,” she croaked and cleared her throat. “Yes, it is. The thing is…”

“You know him! Knew him! All along!” Harry spluttered. His breath came fast, his face full of anger and betrayed confidence. “So what else have you lied about? Or are you going to try to tell me your curse made you forget all about that until just now, or something?” Harry paused, but nothing came out of Petunia’s frozen mouth. “What’s wrong with you—both of you?!?” the boy burst out, his voice breaking out of its adult tone for a second into a childish falsetto.

Petunia stood in silence for a while, brain slowly beginning to thaw from the shock. Whatever she said would be the wrong thing right now. What finally slipped out of her mouth, instead of all the excuses and, yes, more lies, was: “Do you think I could have this picture?” 

“What?” Harry burst out, now visibly bewildered. “That's all you can say?”

“I can say that it's none of your business,” she said smartly. “Keep your nose out of where it doesn't belong. Now can I have this or not?”

“You're welcome to it,” Harry spat and stalked out, pausing only to collect his chairs with a vengeance.

Petunia was still staring at the picture when Arthur poked his head into the room.

“Bill says upstairs is safe,” he said. Arthur’s eldest had been tasked with checking that the floor wouldn't collapse under their weight. “We're going to see if there's a bed that Harry can use.”

“I'll come up once I'm done here,” Petunia said and drew breath to tell him about the photo, but just then Harry passed behind him on his way back from the van, glaring at both of them.

“I didn’t expect him to be happy to be here,” Arthur whispered, puzzled, “but why’s he so angry?”

“I'll tell you about it later,” she sighed. ”Go on. They'll be wondering where you disappeared to.”

“Is something wrong?” Instead of getting himself up to the first floor like he was supposed to Arthur stepped into the living-room and shut the door behind him. ”What happened?”

Petunia sighed even deeper. While she loved Arthur's inexhaustible curiosity, there was a time and place for everything... 

“Harry found this.” She handed him the photo.

“Oooooh!” Arthur exclaimed in delight. “Look, it's us! We were so young.” Absently he stroked his thinning hair. “The picnic, wasn't it? In the garden?”

“The last day,” Petunia said, quietly.

Arthur flinched a little and his smile wilted. “Ehm, uh. Yes.”

“But the point is,” she said quickly to pass over the awkward moment, “Harry saw that.”

“So… is that bad?” Arthur frowned.

Petunia rolled her eyes. “So now he knows we didn't just meet recently, but have been lying to him for years!” Her voice rose in pitch until she finished in a squeak, rather like Harry earlier.

“Well, technically, we never _said_ we'd never met...” Arthur began.

“Arthur!”

“All right, all right.” He held up his hands. “Point taken.”

“Dad?” The door opened and Ron looked inside. “We found an okay bed in the spare bedroom. Can you come and see if we can take it apart?”

“I'm coming,” Arthur said. Ron’s face disappeared, and Arthur whispered to her: “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”

I’ll believe it when I see it, she thought with a sniff, but found herself no longer panicking. Arthur’s endless optimism was quite contagious.

“The screwdrivers and things are in the van,” she called out after Arthur and Ron.

Dismantling the bed took an inordinately long time even for Arthur, and they had to stop to eat. Bill, who struck Petunia as a very well-behaved, solid young man in spite of the horrible scars that ran down his face, walked her to the corner shop for groceries and she cooked up a quick soup for the lot of them, a task not made easier by Lily not having had an electric stove. The autumn evening was dimming to night by the time they left the house and the drizzle had given way to honest rain.

“Thanks for the soup, Mrs Dursley,” Bill said as he prepared to Disapparate with the rest of the company. “It was very good.”

There were general nods of agreement at this judgement. 

“It was nothing,” she shrugged, trying not to show her satisfaction. “Just your usual meat broth.”

“Not our usual,” Ron snorted. “George is the worst cook in the entire world, right after me and dad...”

Ron had moved in with his brother to help at the joke shop, and Arthur had mentioned that they were planning a partnership as soon as Fred's estate, uncomplicated as it was, was sorted out. He was beginning to make his own way in the world. Petunia bravely resisted the temptation to tell him he should marry quickly before he wasted away as that tactic hadn't worked too well with Dudley, either.

“Right, see you at the other end!” Arthur called out and the Weasleys and Hermione Disapparated with waves and bye-byes, leaving Petunia alone with Harry and the rental van again. He started up the car, and as they slid along dark roads and light-encrusted motorways, Petunia had far too much time to think back to that afternoon picnic and the day that followed.

Petunia's and Lily's parents had been away in London, seeing a play and having dinner, and after two, or maybe three, bottles of wine in the garden the young people had all been quite squiffy; the daylong picnic had ended with Lily and James chasing each other into the house and her and Arthur staying outside in full possession of the picnic blanket strategically placed in the protection of some lilac bushes. Now that Petunia remembered it, blushing, she rather imagined she must have been mad more than drunk, because when Arthur had kissed her deep and run his hands over her skin she had not protested about the public venue but enthusiastically participated. They had made love right there in the garden, in the unseasonably hot June night, sweat slicking their skins, trying to keep quiet when people passed along the footpath just on the other side of the high garden fence. She could still remember the taste of it, the taste of him. It had been nearing ten o'clock before they went indoors, carrying the blanket between them with the intention of putting the spoiling foods away but interrupting themselves to make love some more.

And the next morning, Arthur had come downstairs looking like death warmed over.

Everyone else had been at breakfast, apart from her father who had left early for work in spite of his very late night. Arthur hadn't answered any of their worried questions, just quietly asked Petunia out for a walk. Her heart in her feet, she rose and followed him.

“Molly sent an owl,” he said once they were outside, confirming her worst fears. “She... she says she understands that the boys need their father, and, and, and she's willing to make concessions.”

Petunia said nothing.

“She said she's willing to give up on being an Auror if I stop talking about being a teacher and get a real job that supports a family,” he said. His voice became, if possible, more miserable with each word. “She'll stay home with the boys and any more children that ‘happen by’... because she wants a girl. And after we have the girl, she says, she'll go to work for the Auror office, take whatever post she can get.”

“And you're going back to her.” Petunia didn't frame it as a question because it wasn't one. She had known what was coming the second she saw his face in the kitchen.

“Pet, I'm so sorry, but they're my boys, I can't leave them!” Arthur said, his face the very picture of agony. “I'm sorry, Pet...”

“Don't Pet me!” she screamed. They had stopped in the middle of the lane, lined by trees in full bloom. Willows waved their graceful withes at the end where the lane met the river. ”Don't you dare use that name when you choose her over me!”

Things had got uglier after that, and Petunia had called him quite a few names that she now cringed to remember. Then she had run off and cried her eyes out for three days, while Arthur had gone back to Molly and went on to have a joyful life with her. Petunia herself had gone to work in London, staying with Gramma until she met and married Vernon in ridiculous haste. With the arrival of Dudley she had forgiven Arthur and continued to forgive him through all those years with Vernon, finally understanding the price that a child could exact. Even though she had desperately missed him, she would have thought less of him in the end had he made a different choice.

“Harry,” she said, breaking the total silence. Harry jumped and scowled. “I'm sorry I couldn't say anything about Arthur. You're right, it was underhanded. But consider what would have happened, what Vernon would have said and done, if I greeted the man who blew up our fireplace as an old friend and offered him tea?”

Harry sniffed with reluctant laughter but his frown did not lift.

“And after that it was too late and it didn't seem to matter,” she continued. “In any case, I apologise.”

Harry was quiet for so long that Petunia began to think he would not speak, but finally he did, voice flat. “You lied to me about how my parents died. You lied about who I was. You lied about who and what you were. I don’t think I should be surprised you’d lie about something like this.”

“Harry…”

“Clearly you don’t feel I deserve to be taken into your confidence. Well, I don’t care. About any of it. Sod it all.” 

He switched on the radio to a channel that played non-stop music and did not take his eyes off the road for the rest of the drive.

 

Arthur fanned himself with the Daily Prophet he had been pretending to read while musing about the photo Petunia had shown. It had certainly brought back memories… unpleasant ones, yes, those as well, but he found himself much more occupied with the memories made before them, in the evening and during the night, until it was necessary to loosen his collar and strategically rumple his robes across his lap. Maybe he could somehow contrive to accompany Petunia home tonight and remind her of a few things, too…

They were all sitting around in Harry’s new flat, waiting for Harry and the van and, in Arthur’s case, Petunia. The youngsters were talking among themselves and watching tevelision… no, television, he corrected himself. Normally he would have joined them to see how the Muggle world was doing these days, as after all, a television wasn’t something you saw every day, but for now the inside of his own head was much more entertaining.

“Hey Dad,” said Bill, joining him by the far wall on the boxes that Harry had used to dine off of in the absence of a table. “I wanted to ask you about Christmas.”

“Christmas?” Arthur gaped. “It’s only just turned October!”

“I know, but… well, without Mum… Fleur and I first thought we’d have everyone over for Christmas dinner. But there isn’t really enough room in the cottage. With Charlie, and Perce and Audrey, and F-… George, and Ron and Hermione, and Ginny and Harry, and you—that’s nine people, plus me and Fleur. So we thought, how about we do it at the Burrow? Fleur and I can organise, and we’d do all the cooking and cleaning together, a family thing, right?”

“Brilliant! Bill, you’re a mastermind!” Arthur here was a huge troll lifted off his foot before he had even noticed it was there. The crowd would help take his mind off Molly, give him something to hang onto.

“It was mostly Fleur’s idea,” Bill said, then continued in an even lower voice: “But, uh, I hope it’s okay if, when it comes to it, Fleur leaves the actual mopping and carrying firewood to other people.”

The words took a moment to sink in, but when they did, Arthur felt his world light up in fireworks. A huge grin crept across his face. “You mean… you mean you’re… she’s…”

“Yep,” said Bill, clearly satisfied with the effect. “Don’t tell anyone else just yet, we lost one during the war and Fleur doesn’t want people to know.”

“You lost one? Oh my poor boy! You never said!”

“Things were a bit busy at the time,” Bill said. “We’re fine now. It just wasn’t his time yet, that’s all.”

Arthur gave his son’s hand a fatherly squeeze. Now was not a good time to talk about such dark things.

“If Harry’s coming,” he said instead, “then we ought to invite Petunia, as well.”

Bill gave him a bemused look. “Surely they wouldn’t be spending Christmas together anyway?”

“Maybe not, but they should. Besides, she might end up having a very lonely Christmas otherwise.” In a conspiratorial whisper he added: “Also, she might not mind joining in the cooking…”

Bill laughed. “You make a good point,” he said. “And anyway, it’s your house, you invite who you want.”


	3. Family Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, what a "relaxing" and "amicable" Christmas it is for everybody at the Burrow. The Weasley family is still reeling from their losses earlier in the year, and Petunia, invited to stay ostensibly for Harry's sake, feels very much an outsider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The renovations to this story are now complete. Merry Christmas!

Petunia was taking final mental stock of everything for the fifth or sixth time, mentally cursing Harry while the foodstuffs became less and less refrigerated in their bags, when the doorbell finally rang. 

“You’re late,” were her first words to her nephew. “It’s almost ten, you were supposed to be here half an hour ago!”

“Sorry,” Harry said and shook water droplets from his hair. “Got hung up a bit.”

Petunia sighed. “The fish is already… Arthur?” Her attempt to close the door met with an unexpected but very welcome obstacle. Arthur stepped inside in Harry’s wake and returned her smile warmly behind the latter’s back. Petunia’s skin tingled and she fought not to blush. 

“Hello,” he said. “We decided to split the job. Harry takes the food, I take you.”

“Oh… well, I… that sounds like a good plan,” she said, puzzled. “But why?”

“Turns out, Harry here has never actually  _done_ a Sidealong-Apparition! Can you imagine!”

“I  _have_ ,” Harry insisted, clearly continuing an earlier argument. “Me and Hermione did it all winter long, all around England.”

“But this is your aunt, who’s never Apparated anywhere, who couldn’t do it herself to save her life—sorry, Petunia—and you think bringing her along with you would be the same as Hermione, who could Apparate in her sleep?” Arthur shook his head decisively. “No, you just stick to the food, and let me see to Petunia.”

Harry rolled his eyes and turned to the pile of parcels and bags on the table. “Fine. So… all  _this_?”

“The black one is my luggage. The others are food. And the dish on top has the fish, so you’re to take care not to spill the marinade.”

“You do know others are cooking, too?” Harry said as he shouldered one bag and carefully balanced the fish with his hand and arm. “That you’re not supposed to bring  _all_  the food?”

“It’s only the fish and the pudding!” Petunia exclaimed. She threw on her coat and checked her purse for gloves. “And some gingerbread,” she added. “And the carrots to go with the fish, and the mayonnaise and gherkins and capers for the tartare sauce.”

Harry rolled his eyes once again. “See you there, then.” He vanished without further ceremony and so did all the bags and parcels. Petunia stood staring at the spot he had vacated, suddenly apprehensive.

“Why did I ever agree to this?” she grimaced. 

“It’ll be all right. People do it all the time.” Arthur gave her a comforting hug and sighed with contentment. “I’ve missed you. You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

“No idea? Is that what you think?” Petunia said wryly, looking up into his twinkling blue eyes. “It’s been four weeks, and if I remember right, you were the one who cancelled last time…”

Arthur bent to kiss her. “Damned exams. I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured. 

“Looking forward to it…” 

“Do you think we could sit down for a while?” Arthur asked, straightening. “We might not get a minute to ourselves today.”

“Well… will Harry know to put the food away? The fish needs to be kept cold.”

“Fleur will know.” He sat down on the sofa and stretched out an inviting arm along the back. “Please?”

“Is it very bad over there? How is everyone?” Petunia gave in and joined him. At least this would serve to put off the frightening journey by Apparition for a few moments.

“It’s a madhouse down there, and we haven’t even finished cleaning and cooking. We were supposed to get everything done yesterday, but then Molly’s favourite singer’s concert started on the radio and Fleur switched it off. Ron started yelling at her, she yelled back, George joined in, then Bill lost his temper… Finally Ginny threw a Tongue-o’-Dog hex at both Bill and myself and Fleur hit her with a Bat-Ear jinx, and before we had all that sorted out it was close to midnight and we left everything for today. But when Harry and I left, George was still snapping people’s heads off, Ginny was walking around like a dithering ghost, and Fleur was upset because no one will follow her orders… Thank heavens Percy’s not there yet, everything tends to go from bad to worse with Percy in it.” 

Petunia hardly knew what to say to all that. “And you?” she finally asked. “How are you holding up?”

“Not so well,” he confessed. “Yesterday, I was trying to fix a toaster in the shed, and I got so wrapped up in it that I totally lost track of where I was. The door opened, I saw long red hair, and just went: ‘Dinnertime already? I’ll be right there, Molly’ or some such thing. And then Ginny stepped out from behind the shelf and I remembered…” He trailed off. Petunia shifted to hug him and kissed his cheek, which was still smooth from his morning shave, and decided not to unburden her own heart about her first Christmas without Dudley, who was spending the holiday with his girlfriend’s family. She cast about for something else to talk about, and noticed the roll of parchment that an owl had delivered two days before.

“I had a letter from McGonagall.” She retrieved the parchment—nothing in her tiny flat was far out of reach at any point—and handed it to Arthur. 

_Hogwarts_    
 _August 2_

_Dear Mrs Dursley,_

_I must regretfully inform you that, should you decide to accept my offer of lessons here at Hogwarts, we would still be unable to guarantee your safety. The ghost you encountered has not been seen since you left, and we cannot therefore force it to abide by the rules that bind the ghosts of Hogwarts. You will be most welcome here at any time you choose, but I feel bound to make it clear to you that for the time being, you would do so at the risk of life and limb._

_We have by no means stopped attempting to apprehend the spirit, and I will inform you immediately if the situation_ _changes_ _._

_Yours,_

_Minerva McGonagall_    
 _Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Arthur’s face fell as he read. “Oh. That’s really too bad.” He turned to her with a stricken look. All right, so that had been the wrong topic if she wanted to brighten his day.

“It’s all right.” She smiled bravely. “It just wasn’t meant to happen.”

Arthur glanced at his pocket watch. “We should get going. They’ll be wondering where we are.”

“Arthur, are you really quite sure about this? About my coming to the Burrow?” Petunia gently held him back from rising. “Be honest.”

“I’m sure that I want to spend this Christmas with you,” he said. His eyes were wide and earnest and blue like the evening sky. He hesitated before continuing: "I want you to come because it's started to feel very strange to have a life that you're not a part of. I mean..." He blushed and stared at the worn wood of the coffee table in front of them, even as Petunia struggled not to show just how much those words simultaneously frightened and thrilled her. “I mean, it doesn't feel right to have one life for my children, and another life for you, like kitchen cupboards... I'm not making any sense, am I?"

"You're making perfect sense," Petunia said. She shifted and cleared her throat. "But remember we agreed..."

"...not to tell the children about us," he finished. "Yet. And you're right. I just want to show you everything, I want you to be there."

_Yet._  Petunia’s brow knitted. What exactly had she expected him to say? As far as she recalled, the word  _yet_  had not been included in their agreement, only implied. Or maybe not implied. After all, if things continued as they were, there was no actual reason for the children to ever know, and that would be by far the simplest option. Besides, who knew if they would even be together in a year’s time? By then, Arthur would have had plenty of opportunity to get past regrets out of his system and start thinking about the future, which he had begged off from on the night of the graduation ball at Hogwarts, and Petunia had no real reason to suppose that she would be included in that future. She really ought to disregard the way her chest tightened and how she lit up from the top of her head all the way down to the toes at the thought of Arthur, to follow his example and only think of the present, of today. … But did that word  _yet_  really fit with Arthur thinking of the present day?

“Pet?”

She started, and gave him a quick smile. “What?”

“You are coming with me, aren’t you?”

 “Since you seem to want me to, of course I am.” She patted his knee. “Maybe we really should leave now.”

“Yes!” Arthur’s face lighted up with his grin, and he stood up, put on his hat and rebuttoned his robes. Petunia stood up more slowly, anxious again over just how they would be leaving. Her hand trembled slightly as she laid it on Arthur’s invitingly extended arm, and he squeezed it gently as he drew her close.

“I’ll take you a little distance from the house,” he said. “It’s easier, and you can, uh, have some privacy when we land. Hold on tight to my arm. And this.” He handed her a paper bag.

“What’s this for?”

“In case you’re sick,” he said and, before Petunia even had time to open her mouth to tell him to wait and elaborate on what he meant by being sick, there was a folding sensation and the world twisted into a whirling void. Utterly terrified, Petunia held on to Arthur’s arm and screamed without breath as they were whisked along in a torrent of warped reality.

“Sshh, it’s all right, we’re there,” Arthur’s voice said next to her ear. “You can open your eyes now, it’s over.”

Petunia stopped screaming and opened her eyes just a crack, ready to close them again immediately, but the world had re-emerged and reconfigured itself into a rolling vista of wintry Devonshire where wind stirred dry grass amidst sparse naked trees and blew sleet into their eyes. With an effort, Petunia unclenched what felt like every muscle in her body and swallowed.

“Feeling all right?” Arthur asked, peering into her face with a concerned expression.

She straightened and ran a mental inventory over her body parts. All seemed to be in working order, so she gave a cautious nod in reply.

“Excellent! Not even nauseous? I knew you had it in you!” Arthur hugged her delightedly but she was still too shaken to answer. “Let’s get going, then. The Burrow’s just over there.” He drew his wand and made a magic umbrella over both of them that kept them dry in the squalling wet snow.

They rounded a bend and there was, unmistakably, the Weasleys' house. Arthur’s home had never really been a frequent topic of conversation between them, and from the name she had expected something low-lying, bungalow-style. Instead, the Burrow was more like two or three houses perching precariously one on top of the other and looked as though a breeze, much weaker than the one blowing from behind their backs right now, would topple it like a stack of cardboard boxes, supporting beams or no. This house had no business standing up, much less being inhabited, but regardless, a light burned in every window and shadows flitted energetically across them. 

“What do you think?” Arthur’s anxious grin made her want to laugh.

“Looks very cosy.” She squinted at the house. “Are those chicken coops?”

Arthur nodded. “No chickens anymore, though, had to give them up when I went off to Hogwarts. Same with the pigs. Charlie used to keep rabbits round the back, but those are long gone.”

The path from the field where they had arrived joined a mud road, or rather two ruts beside a ditch, leading to the front of the house. The house had a ridiculously tiny front garden, half filled with the piles of chicken coops. The grounds about the house had the same scruffy, neglected air, the grass uncut, flowerbeds overrun by weeds and an overturned bird bath lounging next to the ruins of some ancient piece of farm machinery. Arthur seemed blithely oblivious to the mess and unapologetically waved her inside the garden gate.

Just then an upper-floor window slammed open and a blanket popped out, followed by Ginny’s head and arms. She grimaced against the weather as she dusted the blanket vigorously, then set it down on the windowsill and, not acknowledging her father in any way except an angry frown, reached inside for another. A balcony door opened and another young woman leaned out to look.

“Non, non!” The blonde woman shook her head as Ginny re-emerged. “You ‘ave to set zem all out first,  _zen_  shake,  _zen_  put insahd. Ozzerwise all ze dust gets on ze dusted ones!”

“In this rain and wind? Are you insane? Well, you’re welcome to do this yourself,” Ginny said flatly. “I do it this way.”

The blonde woman sniffed, but then she spotted Arthur and Petunia at the door. “ ‘ello zere! Oo must be Petunia,” she called in a thick French accent and waved, and favoured them with a smile so dazzling that Petunia’s jaw dropped open slightly. She had never in her life seen anyone so perfectly beautiful, even with her hair getting wet and plastering about her head, and suddenly Petunia felt very old and dowdy. “Arthur, why do oo make ‘er stand out zere? Come in from ze cold!”

“Just coming in now,” Arthur replied equably and winked at Petunia, then chuckled at her flabbergasted expression. “Ah, Fleur. Yes. She takes people that way, but you’ll get used to it.”

He swung open the door and, clearly bursting with anticipation, motioned her inside. Petunia longed to kiss him, or take his hand, or even just straighten the collar of his robes as an excuse to touch him again, but had to be content with brushing past him as she stepped inside.

The house was jammed chock full of furniture and people. Bill was laying a freshly beaten carpet back on the floor, using his wand to lift the sofa out of the way. A young man with a curly variant of the Weasley hair was dusting the ceiling beams, effortlessly reaching the low ceiling with his duster. Harry and Ron were stuffing sofa pillows back inside their covers, the former pausing at the sight of her to frown slightly. Petunia turned to greet Fleur, who was hurrying down a flight of curving stairs, and heard Harry remark in an undertone to Ron: “Aunt Petunia at the Burrow. My head might just explode.”

“Percy! You’re here,” Arthur said to the curly-haired young man, the sigh in his voice all but inaudible. “Good show. Charlie’s owl this morning said he’d be here noonish, so that’ll be all of… hm.” A shadow crossed his face at the thought of those who were not here this Christmas, but soon he rallied and with moderate cheer introduced Petunia to both Fleur and to Percy.

“Dad, the tree’s still outside,” Ron said. “We’ve never had a Christmas morning without a tree…”

“Yes, so you reminded us in the morning,” Arthur said, now sighing outright. “Several times.”

“…and soon it’ll be a whole Christmas dinner without a tree!” 

“I’m going, I’m going! Just as soon as I’ve shown Petunia the house and got her settled in.” Ron drew breath to counter, but shut his mouth again and glowered at his father’s stormy expression. 

A tour of the ground floor was quickly accomplished, as it contained nothing but the living-room and the kitchen. The furniture and textiles had obviously been selected by a person with limited taste but a strong sense of comfort and ease. The colours and patterns matched nowhere, but as that hadn’t been the idea to begin with, the whole worked surprisingly well. It was hard to reconcile all this with what she knew about Molly, the clever, deft witch who had dreamed of being an Auror. Yet when Arthur took her upstairs, the staircase that twisted up the stairwell and crossed over itself in its eagerness to reach every room reminded her forcibly of the man climbing it just above her and she smiled again. 

The stairs were quite steep, and when they passed through a landing with one closed door and one open, showing two beds made with bedspreads in clashing colours, Petunia was already panting slightly. By the time they reached the second floor her breathing had definitely deepened and she paused on the last step.

“How high up have you put me?” she wheezed and almost fainted when she peered up the stairwell and saw four more floors above them.

“Just here.” Arthur opened the door on their left. “Oh good, Harry’s brought up your things already. This is actually Percy’s room, but he’s bunking with Charlie in Bill’s old room.”

Petunia stumbled slightly on the threshold, still a little stricken by the exercise. The room was decorated in shades of pale green and beige with white lace curtains, and it was in fact quite lovely, though small and not very rectangular. Her luggage was already here, the small valise deposited by the bed that fit snugly along the window wall. She would be able to sit up in bed and look directly out the narrow window, where a lamp now hung. Arthur lit it with a flourish of his wand, which did much to counter the effects of the howling wind and the wet droplets of sleet against the window. “I’m across the landing in, um, Fred and George’s old room. George says he’s not staying overnight. Bill and Fleur are in the big bedroom, to give her some space to move around, in her condition. And because I just can’t sleep there anyway.” His mouth pinched shut. He had barely stumbled on Fred’s name, but it was clear that this Christmas was taking a serious toll on him. 

Just then the muted bang of someone Apparating sounded from the landing outside. They both started back to avert suspicion as Fleur, barely knocking, entered.

“Petunia—oh, ‘ello, Arthur.” The girl blinked, then turned back to Petunia. “’Arry mentioned zere was fish, so I took it out of your bag and put it on ice, but could you come soon and put away any ozzer zings zat need to be put away?”

“I’ll come down soon. I’d just like to freshen up a little, hang up my clothes maybe. I brought nothing else that’ll spoil, the mayonnaise will keep a few minutes more.”

“Of course, take your time,” Fleur exclaimed in direct polite contradiction of herself. She went away, but not without an odd glance at Arthur who perforce followed his daughter-in-law, venting another sigh.

Petunia took off her coat and hung it in the near-empty wardrobe (it contained just two sets of men’s robes, nothing fancy in the way of materials but very neat and clean), then took her nicer dress from the bag and hung it alongside. She sat down on the bed, which was sprung to exactly the right feel, neither too soft nor hard and lumpy, to put on her house shoes and tried not to feel like the walls and furniture were watching her with Molly’s eyes.

On her return downstairs into the kitchen Petunia had a nasty shock. Of course, in hindsight it should have been perfectly obvious that the Burrow would not have an electric stove, but in spite of the recent visit to Godric’s Hollow she was so used to taking such an item for granted that she was momentarily at a complete loss to imagine how she would manage the final touches to the meal. There was an ancient wood-burning range, black with soot and maybe worse things, but the furnace was stone cold and the oven had clearly not been used for a long time—at a guess, not since Molly died. She used a stray spatula to open the furnace and grimaced at the sight.

“I’d planned to boil carrots to go with the fish,” she sighed, “but didn’t think to prepare them at home. We’ll just have to go without.” 

“Why iz zat?” asked Fleur, clearly puzzled, looking up from the peas she was shelling at the table.

“Well…” Petunia tried to indicate the range with a flat look, but got no reaction. Mindful of Arthur trimming the tiny Christmas tree in the corner (a larger one would never fit), and not wanting to criticize anything about his house, including clogged stovepipes, she opted for: “I’m not used to wood stoves, I’ve only really cooked on gas and electric.”

Fleur’s eyes widened. Arthur, on the other hand, spun round with a sound halfway between delighted and dismayed.

“Of course, silly me! Electric stoves! Molly always just uses… used…” He stumbled. Petunia had to look away. “Used magic to boil the water—I think.”

“Zat’s what I do. I apologise, I really do, I forgot…” Fleur looked stricken, exactly as though she had just told a cripple to stand or a blind woman to play checkers. Petunia did not know whether to be offended or embarrassed by her solicitousness.

“Here, let me,” Arthur said and started to disentangle himself from the tree decorations.

Petunia waved him off. “No, wait, it’s all right, I have to chop them up first in any case. Is there a chopping board anywhere…?” Or had Molly used magic for that as well? Probably, but she did locate a board and a good, sharp knife and set to peeling and chopping up the carrots which would have to be cooked well ahead of time in order to cool down and marinate. 

She and Fleur got along quite well, in fact. She let Fleur rule the kitchen, but thanks to Petunia’s long experience the girl in turn sensibly extended to her a sort of co-monarchy, as long as she stayed away from the lamb and the mashed potatoes. The gingerbread Fleur pronounced approved and had Bill set them out in the living-room next to her own French-style biscuits. Petunia was content to receive more ‘suggestions’ than she gave, remembering with a nostalgic smile the harridan that had been Vernon’s mother and the way her kitchen had been run, and was quite secure in the knowledge that, having survived Eva Dursley, being ordered around by Fleur was the equivalent of humouring a small child. This thought even let her watch Fleur prepare the rack of lamb and heroically refrain from offering tips on frenching it. 

The whole cottage was a flurry of activity that, given the festive season, should have been cheerful and fun but seemed rather strained instead, and small wonder, given what Arthur had said about yesterday. The younger children had been dispatched to clean the staircase and the upstairs rooms. George had one floor all to himself because he dripped venom over anyone he encountered (“E’s been like zat since ze funneral,” Fleur whispered to Petunia as they watched the boy storm by with a full dustpan). Bill hung up garlands and bells and scrubbed the fireplace. When he had finished with the tree Arthur took it upon himself to sweep the floor, a task which somehow required him to pass through the kitchen every two or three minutes to snag a carrot off Petunia’s chopping board.

“Arthur, really!” Petunia could not help laughing when he bit into the third or fourth carrot. “We’ll have none left for dinner! Here, have a gherkin.” Arthur accepted the substitute with good cheer. 

Hermione arrived at some point; Petunia only realised she was there when the girl walked into the kitchen to boil water (with unbearable magical competence) for some cleaning task upstairs. 

By mid-afternoon the house was more or less in order (or so it was implied; Petunia could only wonder what exactly constituted ‘order’ in a house where sofa cushions far outnumbered sofa seats and worn-out patches on the armchairs had been covered with only slightly less worn-out doilies). Arthur’s tree was effulgently and very inexpertly trimmed with adorable decorations clearly manufactured by children of varying ages, plus a string… a group? A flock? of fairy lights that seemed to move, solely because they did—on closer inspection, each light proved to be a little glowing fairy, a bewitched decoration that struck a series of four poses in turn as it perched on or walked along its assigned branch. The fairy on top was the largest and seemed to hang on for dear life as it waved a wand with an enormous star on the end. 

Just as Fleur and Petunia had finished setting the table for tea and sandwiches, the door flew open and a gust of wind blew in a veritable cloud of snow. Everyone exclaimed in dismay that turned into pleasure when they realised that the new arrival was the long-awaited Charlie. 

“I had the very devil of a time getting here,” he said as he shook snow from his robes and hat, both made of fox fur as far as Petunia could tell. Long, white-tipped tails decorated the lower part of the robe and the shade of the late fox around the brim of his hat matched exactly the red of his hair. “I was still fifty miles away when the snow started in earnest and these seven-league boots started to get bogged down—had to Apparate the rest of the way.” He hung up his furs and yanked off a pair of enormous black boots. 

“You’re just in time to avoid the cleaning,” George said, the first time he had spoken in hours. From the slight slur in his words Petunia conjectured the existence of a hidden bottle of alcohol.

“Good thing, too,” Charlie said sourly. “We moved a nest of Eurasian Knobblewicks away from Muggle habitation this morning and displaced a nest of gnomes that we had to hunt down before I could leave. I can’t remember the last time I slept. Or ate.”

“Go to bed, then, when you’ve had your tea,” Arthur said. “Dinner’s at eight, you’ve got time.”

Everyone snagged platefuls of sandwiches and gigantic mugs of tea and dispersed around the living room to enjoy them. Charlie poured himself a glass of milk and bit into a sandwich with the relish of a man long deprived of food and his brows lifted in surprise. “Issh bwilliant!” he mumbled through his mouthful. “Oo ma’e heefe?”

“Petunia did,” Arthur said, sounding just a bit more eager and enthusiastic than the situation warranted. “You haven’t met, have you? Petunia, this is my second eldest, Charlie. Charlie, this is Petunia. Harry’s aunt. She’s spending the Christmas with us.”

Charlie started as he noticed her for the first time and swallowed hastily. “Oh! So sorry.” He rose politely from the chair he had just commandeered and they shook hands. “Harry’s aunt, you say? Nice for Harry to be with family at Christmas.”

Petunia smiled awkwardly and ignored the aforementioned Harry, whose looks darkened.

Everyone ate their fill of sandwiches (the roast beef and pickle ones had turned out especially nice, Petunia thought) and then drifted off to whatever chores or entertainment they could devise. Petunia set out the fish on a nice dish she found in a cupboard and after decorating it with lemon slices and dill found herself at loose ends, with plenty of time to fill before dinner. She looked around the kitchen, searching for anything to do, and picked up a duster fortunately abandoned on the edge of a shelf. The whole kitchen could in fact use not just a dusting but a good rubbing down with a liberal dose of bleach; as it had been continually occupied it had got rather ignored in the cleaning frenzy.

“Zere’s a spell for that,” Fleur remarked. She had the potatoes simmering, the lamb in the oven and the haricots ready and waiting to be boiled, and was now putting the kettle on for another pot of tea. “Do oo want me to show? Arthur said oo are learning.”

“No, thank you, I’m fine. I’d just break things.” Petunia whisked away energetically until came to a blank stretch of wall with a lighter stain below a hook, as if something used to hang there. “What’s this, do you know?”

“Zere used to be a clock,” Fleur said, lowering her voice. “It had an ‘and for each Weasley, and oo could see where everyone was—‘ome, work, zat sort of thing.” She stepped up to Petunia and her voice dropped to a whisper. “When zey returned from ‘Ogwarts after ze big battle, Molly’s and Fred’s ‘ad dropped off. Arthur burned it.”

Petunia swallowed around the sudden leaden lump in her chest and throat. The whole house abruptly pressed down on her again with all the weight of Arthur’s and Molly’s shared years and glowered at her for dishonouring their happy home by her mere presence. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” she muttered with a desperate shake of her head and grimaced. “And neither should Harry. It should be just family, this Christmas.”

“Petunia! What nonsense!” Fleur exclaimed. “’Arry  _is_  family, and so are oo, through ‘im. And besides…” Fleur peeked around the corner of the enormous hearth into the living-room where Arthur, Harry and Ron were munching on gingerbread and cookies and listening, or pretending to listen, to Percy’s long-winded explanation involving blotters and the Minister for Magic while Hermione leafed through a thick, dusty book. “Arthur is very much ‘appier since you came. Ze day before yesterday, ‘e was more like Georges. Today, ‘e’s almost himself.”

“Really?” Poor, dear Arthur, completely beside himself to be back here, spending his first Christmas without Molly. Suddenly she realised that was not really the response she should have given, Petunia cleared her throat. “I doubt I have anything to do with that.”

Fleur gave her an odd look and went to pour tea for both of them. Then she sank into a chair and rubbed her ankles. “Zank goodness we’re almost done. My feet are zoo zore from yesterday already.”

“In your first trimester already?” Petunia asked and sat down herself. To be honest, her own feet were beginning to feel the strain somewhat as well. “I just had back pain with Dudley at that point. It got much worse towards the end.”

Fleur stared at her in alarm. “’ow did oo know? We ‘aven’t told anyone but… ah. Arthur?”

Petunia nodded. 

“I’m almost four months along. But please, don’t tell anyone! I ‘ad one miscarriage already, I don’t want anyone asking and worrying…”

“I understand. Your secret’s safe with me.” 

Fleur sipped her tea and then went on, perhaps relieved to be sharing her predicament with someone: “In any case, I’ve ‘ad to stop wearing my shoes mostly, zey no longer fit.”

“They never will again. I gained two shoe sizes, myself,” Petunia said. Fleur looked horrified. “But on the other hand, it’s a good excuse to go shoe-shopping,” she added.

There was a pause. Fleur picked up her teacup again. “Alors… you and Arthur, you are longtime friends, non?” She seemed fully occupied with her sip of tea but Petunia thought she saw one of those shrewd flashes from between the long, luxurious eyelashes.

“We first met when I was young,” she answered evenly and sipped at her own tea. If the truth of that summer subsequently came out, lying now would give away absolutely everything. Being forthright was therefore the key… while remaining safely economical with the whole truth, of course.

“I zee; before you met your ‘usband—Vernon?”

“Yes, quite a while before. I was still living with my parents.”

“Before ‘e met Molly?”

“No, they already had Bill and Charlie.” Petunia looked at the young woman, feeling uncomfortably like a fish about to have its guts taken out for examination. “He visited our home to do research on electricity.”

“And oo kept in touch? Stayed friends?”

“No, no, we didn’t meet again for years afterwards.”

“Hélas! Petunia, oo are blushing!” Fleur grinned and winked.

“I am not,” Petunia protested, sipping her tea and silently panicking. What if she actually guessed? What if someone overheard?  

“Yes, oo are! And Arthur so ‘appy to see you…” Fleur giggled. Petunia buried her now truly burning face in the mug again. “It is so, is it not? You and Arthur!”

“Ssssh! Please keep your voice down!” Petunia begged in a whisper. She wanted nothing more than to deny everything and escape upstairs, or all the way to London. Even though a tiny part of her lit up like a stove to think that there was a ‘her and Arthur’ to be having this conversation over, she was acutely alive to the dreadful danger of discussing it here where Arthur’s children could interrupt them at any second. “You can’t tell anyone!”

“But it’s so romantic!” Fleur objected.

“It’s too soon for the children. For Ron and Ginny, I mean, at least.”

“But zey should be ‘appy for both of you! Bill and I are,” Fleur whispered furiously and gave Petunia a most un-English hug around the shoulders, even as she tried to wrap her head around the thought that Bill and Fleur had not only guessed but also discussed the issue. “Even ‘e sees ‘is father is so much more cheerful when you are ‘ere. And it’s your life, and Arthur’s! You don’t need ‘is children’s permission!”

“It’s not that simple. Promise you won’t,” Petunia pleaded.

Fleur, crestfallen, finally promised to keep mum. Petunia was not altogether reassured; the girl’s youthful romantic enthusiasm was all very well, but Petunia was utterly terrified by the thought that she might let something slip accidentally or, given that touch of idealism, on purpose. 

In the living-room, the low murmur of conversation had degenerated into bickering. Apparently someone had had enough of Percy’s shop talk, because he could be heard retaliating: “At least I  _have_  a job, a real one that I worked my way up to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ron’s voice rose.

“It means you ought to shut up because all you’ve done with your life is loaf around at school and then take a job working with your brother because that’s all you could get.”

A storm of angry yelling ensued as Harry and Hermione furiously defended Ron, Percy defended himself, and Ron flung insult after insult at Percy. Ginny ran downstairs, apparently with the specific purpose of joining the fray which she did at great volume.

Fleur snorted a sigh. 

“Zis is where Molly would shout Be quiet! And everyone would zen  _be_  quiet… except Molly.” She trailed off and looked away. Petunia wondered how, exactly, Fleur and her mother-in-law had got along, given the girl’s singular lack of scruples about Arthur’s new relationship.

In the absence of the despot, though, no such command was forthcoming and the hullabaloo continued. After no more than a minute or two a pained Arthur slipped into the kitchen, rubbing his temples.

“Would ‘oo like some tea?” Fleur took out her wand and with a fluid movement flung a warming spell at the pot.

“No, thank you, Fleur. I, uh…” He glanced out the window and his brow cleared. With renewed energy he spun round to smile at Petunia. “Would you like to see my shed, Petunia?”

“Well, I…” She glanced into her teacup and found it empty. Fleur’s foot nudged hers under the table; Petunia did not dare look her way. “Are you sure you won’t have any tea?”

“Can’t think in this noise, it’s doing my head in. Come on, you’ll love it!” Arthur strode to the corner where the coats were kept and retrieved both hers and his own, and Petunia allowed herself to be led out into the yard that had turned white in the last two or three hours. Enormous wet snowflakes blew through the air on a gusty wind, and by the time she and Arthur flung themselves through the door or the shed Petunia was sure her hair and make-up were completely ruined.

“There now, that’s better!” Arthur shut the storm outside the flimsy door and used his wand to light the two oil lamps that hung above the workbench that ran down the length of the room. The entire interior of the shed was crammed full of what Petunia could only consider rubbish—old electronic equipment of every description, from televisions and radios and toasters to fans, a bin of extremely dead watches and an electric kettle; a cascade of power cords that hung from the ceiling like vines; half a dozen mixers, not only electric but also a mechanical, hand-cranked one, were heaped upon one table. An old washing machine jutted out forlornly from under a shelf where boxes and boxes of tools perched. Three large cardboard boxes marked “PLUGS”, “MORE PLUGS” and “STRANGE PLUGS” occupied the space under the central table. The air smelled of lamp oil and the electric dust that floated in the air in great quantities.

“Well?” Arthur was watching her with an eager, or anxious, grin, breath billowing white in the cold air. Petunia’s mouth shaped itself irresistibly into an answering smile. 

“It’s quite lovely, Arthur,” she said, and meant every word. This was his world, every inch of it, shaped by him, like an old coat that, even hanging in a closet, retained the figure of its owner.

“I know it could use a bit of a clean,” he said, glancing around with sudden self-consciousness and wiping a layer of grime off the screen of a wrecked portable television. “But then, I’m taking all these Muggle things to Hogwarts when I go. Come here, I want to show you something.” He beckoned, and Petunia stepped around the hose of an old hoover to follow him further inside.

The scant light from the shed’s window was not enough to illuminate the contents of the table before it. Arthur lit a third lamp beside the window, and the light glimmered in golden highlights on the keys and hard curves of an antique typewriter that Petunia instantly recognised as the same model she had practised typing on as a teenager. She laughed.

“I haven’t seen one of these in years! Where did you get it?”

“They were throwing out the lot at the Ministry a few years ago,” Arthur said. “They’d been modified for use as graphoscribes, but I took out the spells and the extra bits and got this one going again. Do you want to have a go?”

“No, not now, my fingers are frozen.”

“Oh!” Arthur instantly stepped close to put his arms around her. “My poor Pet. I’ve no option but to warm you up, then, especially because…” He withdrew a little to point upwards and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Petunia looked and saw a branch of mistletoe above them, carefully tied to a length of string that ran between two sets of shelves to position it just right.

“Arthur Weasley, you sly man!” Petunia murmured as he drew her close for a long, luxurious kiss. His lips were hot against the winter chill and lit up her whole body as they gave themselves over to unhurried pleasure. When they surfaced again, it seemed like years had passed in seconds.

“Should we go back?” Petunia asked, not really wanting to, her arms still around Arthur’s neck. “They’ll be wondering.”

“Clearly we’ll be a while, with me showing you my plug collection,” Arthur murmured. “And you’re explaining to me the wonders of how all these machines operate.” He kissed her again, an uncomplicated, familiar kiss. “I’m so very happy that you’re here. I couldn’t have done this without you. I couldn’t be here. It’s selfish of me, I know, everyone’s being so tiresome and fighting all the time. I’m sorry I dragged you here…”

“Sssh.” Petunia kissed him in reassurance, then remembered what she had wanted to tell him. “Arthur, listen. Fleur and Bill…”

She got no further before the loud bang of the front door of the house being slammed open interrupted her. From outside came Ginny’s voice, yelling: “You keep Mum out of this, you hypocritical toadslime!” And, after a pause, “What are  _you_  lot staring at?!? I’m going for a walk!” The door banged shut.

“Maybe we should get back before people start jinxing each other,” Arthur sighed. “Again.” He seemed to have aged ten years in two seconds.

Four tracks made by worn wellies headed away from the cottage. As they neared the door it opened, and Bill and Fleur stepped out.

“We need a bit of air,” Bill explained as they headed out, wrapped in scarves and long robes which did not entirely prevent Fleur’s hair being whipped around in the sleety gale. “Won’t be long. Percy’s watching the oven and Charlie’s sleeping, and you probably saw the rest come out.”

“Why would anyone go for a walk in weather like this?” Arthur wondered as they got inside, where the dutiful Percy sat at the table reading a book and glancing at the oven every now and then. “But I’m not complaining. Listen!” He cocked his head. “All this silence!”

Petunia had never sat down to a more eclectic set of plates, silverware and glasses than those set out along the length of the Weasleys’ dinner table. Not only were no two place settings alike, several of the dishes had cracked glazing and chips had visibly broken off. Two or three years ago she would have been completely scandalized, but now she only mentally sighed at the dishevelled homeliness of it all. Perhaps she should have offered to also bring tableware? Then again, all of her carefully hoarded china was now in Glasgow, gathering dust in Vernon’s house.

To no one’s surprise, dinner got off to a bad start as soon as everyone started helping themselves to food and Ron started complaining about the unholy inclusion of fish on the holiday menu. Everyone else, Petunia was gratified to note, finished generous helpings, and in fact Ron managed to also polish off his plate in spite of his complaints. Fleur’s rack of lamb, garnished with rosemary and thyme and seasoned with a liberal dose of garlic, was the real issue: it was very, very tasty, but the Weasley Christmas spread had apparently always featured a roasted goose and boiled potatoes, and this departure from tradition was enough to make the delicious mutton stick in everyone’s throat. Arthur, Bill and Charlie bravely forced down a moderate amount while Percy and Ginny only fiddled with the food on their plates. George and Ron, however, took it upon themselves to express every uncharitable thought that crossed their minds, and their “quiet” conversation amongst themselves was quite clearly overheard by everyone, at least as far as the general tone was concerned. Halfway through the main course the words “this French muck” floated from the discussion like offal in the general direction of Fleur, who quickly excused herself only just in time to avoid having her eyes brim over in front of everyone. 

“Ron, George, you can both take that attitude and shove it!” Bill hissed, white with rage as he rose to follow his wife upstairs. 

“It’s not Fleur’s fault that your mother’s not here,” Hermione pointed out to Ron, her reasonable words underlain by anger and sadness. The four youngest children were seated all together near the end of the long table just barely large enough, even with Arthur’s handy extension charm, to accommodate everyone, and that only as long as everyone kept their elbows in and did not gesture too widely. Arthur sat at what would be his accustomed seat at the head of the table, opposite Ginny apparently occupying her mother’s old place. In the more or less random scramble for the rest of the chairs, Petunia had ended up one seat over from Arthur, separated from him by Percy.

“No,” said Harry, who had been very quiet until then, and laid down his fork. “It’s mine.”

“What in the name of Merlin’s merlings are you on about?” Ron gaped. The silence that had fallen with Fleur’s departure deepened, as though a radio with the sound turned down had been switched off. Petunia tried to shrink into her chair, furiously wishing herself elsewhere. The Weasley family did not need her to witness this pain.  _She_  really did not need to witness this and be powerless to comfort poor Arthur. Her heart thumped like a washing-machine in its spin cycle with the laundry settled unevenly.

“It was my fault. I’m sorry.” Harry, staring at his plate of barely touched lamb and whipped potatoes, sounded like he was being strangled. “I wasn’t quick enough with the shield charm. If I’d just managed it half a second earlier…”

“Don’t be stupid, Harry,” Ginny said in a frozen voice. “It was my fault. She was protecting me…”

Percy set down his glass with enough force to splash some wine onto the white tablecloth. “Well, if I hadn’t been such an ass all year, maybe she would’ve been quicker herself, could have got out of the way…”

 “That’s enough.” Arthur’s gruff voice brought everyone to a halt. “Percy, you had nothing to do with it. Ginny, your mother made her own choices, it’s not your fault. And Harry—you tried at least, you made a shield charm…” His voice broke. “All I did was stand there and watch. So if anyone’s to blame, shouldn’t it be me?”

Ron opened his mouth, but Hermione cut him off. “Mr Weasley, you’d just stunned a group of Snatchers who’d got hold of Lee Jordan, don’t you remember? You couldn’t possibly have done anything, you just turned around and… it happened.”

“I did?” Arthur frowned, looking momentarily lost. Petunia longed to give him a comforting touch to remind him that he was not alone, but perhaps that would not have been a good idea right now even if she could.

“I saw you. So did Lee.”

“Are you all mental?” The words issuing from the heretofore reticent Charlie made everyone turn to look. He rose and leaned forward, looking up and down the table, intense and formidable in spite of his yellow and green robes. “Voldemort. It was Voldemort. Not Harry, not Ginny, not Percy, certainly not Dad, but Voldemort. Can we all keep that in mind here?”

Arthur’s shoulders sagged as the tension leaked out of him. Percy and Ginny deflated, too, and Petunia began to hope that a complete explosion had been averted.

“Well, but if…” Harry started, but Arthur lifted a warning finger.

“None of that, Harry. Charlie’s quite right. We can  _if_  all we like but it won’t change anything, and like Charlie said, You-Know… Voldemort is the only guilty party here.”

Harry did not appear convinced but did not press the issue.

When Fleur and Bill returned, Petunia gave the young woman the most bracing smile she could manage. Fleur’s eyes travelled over each plate on the table in turn, and finding at least some plates empty seemed to mollify her. It took a while for talk to pick up again, and when it did, everyone steered clear of touchy topics. Charlie updated them all on his dragon research in Romania and Percy gave a long-winded account of various important functions he had recently attended as Minister Shacklebolt’s undersecretary. Ginny answered very curtly when asked about her studies. Bill tried to draw out George about the joke shop but got only semi-coherent mutters, because he, George, had at this point downed three or four glasses of wine in quick succession in addition to whatever he had been imbibing earlier. 

“So, Dad,” asked Charlie eventually. “How’s your work?”

“To be honest, I’m becoming tired of it,” Arthur sighed. “The Ministry isn’t what it was before the war. We lost many good people, and some of the empty seats are being filled with people who... well, who I’m not comfortable with.” 

“Who would that be?” Percy asked, sounding slightly defensive.

“Obviously I don’t mean Harry or Hermione,” Arthur chuckled briefly. Then he frowned. “Bacilius Goyle, for example. And Vixie Retory in Law.”

Just then Fleur arrived with the pudding, and deeper delving into Ministerial business was forgotten.

“That looks good,” Charlie said as Fleur set the dish in the middle of the table.

“Petunia made it.” Fleur’s mouth pinched into a straight line. “Zo I suppose it’s English enough.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “I’m sure it’ll be a wonderful finale for a delicious meal,” he said loudly. “Petunia, would you like to do the honours?”

Petunia opened her mouth to ask for matches, realised that the house would have none, and changed what she wanted to say. “Why don’t you, Arthur? You’re our host.” Theoretically, Petunia knew she could light a fire with magic, but not with everyone staring, or if she did manage it, she would probably set the entire cottage ablaze.

“If you’re sure…” Arthur took his wand and the bottle of brandy that George retrieved from a cupboard. There was some general hassle as Petunia, Arthur, Hermione and Percy debated over the best way to light a pudding. In the end, Arthur simply poured the alcohol on top of the pudding while warming it as it exited the bottle and finished by lighting it with an exaggerated flourish. The pudding bloomed into sapphire flame to general applause. Fleur then cut and handed out slices and Bill distributed brandy for everyone but the youngest youngsters who, he remarked, had had quite enough for one night. Petunia retrieved the custard and passed it round.

“Bloody hell…” Ron’s eyes widened as he lifted a small hard lump out of the slice on his plate. “I got the knut!”

“That’s a penny, Ron,” Hermione pointed out. 

“Well done,” Petunia said. “Everyone should watch out, there’s six charms in the pudding—my grandmother had a set. They’re all different. The penny stands for luck or wealth, of course.”

Everyone began to dig into their portions and one by one lifted out little objects. The thimble, for hard work, went to Hermione, and Charlie got the bachelor’s button. Arthur’s plate yielded the anchor, which he regarded with puzzlement.

“My mother said it means safe harbour, like a ship coming home from a long voyage,” Petunia explained. “But my grandmother said it was hope.” In response, Arthur gave her a smile that signalled clearly just what, or who, he thought it referred to, and which heated her cheeks and made her tingle in interesting places.

“Hey, it’s a baby!” Charlie was the first to exclaim as Fleur brushed the crumbs off the tiny silver figure of a naked child curled up in sleep. He elbowed Bill playfully. “Not bad. You’d best get on with it, brother, we’re all dying to be uncles. And aunt.”

Fleur and Bill exchanged a look. The corner of Fleur’s mouth twitched up and she gave a one-shouldered shrug of resignation. Bill grinned.

“Actually, Charlie, we’re glad to hear you say that,” he drawled, savouring the moment and the slow widening of his siblings’ eyes as they caught his drift, “because it looks like you might get your wish before summer.”

The room exploded with noise as everyone began to talk at once, congratulating the happy couple, clapping Bill’s back and hugging Fleur. The tortuous tension that had dominated the gathering dissipated in the happy commotion, and Fleur slowly began to smile again in the warmth of the sudden familial inclusion. 

Petunia remembered how she and Vernon had announced the impending arrival of Dudley to an audience of mostly stunned future grandparents and aunts, and how Vernon’s mother had commented curtly that it was about time and that a grandson would be most welcome. At the time, she had thought that normal.

Watching them, she began to feel more and more like an intruder. First it was family pain, now it was family happiness, and she was part of neither. She listened to Arthur, finally freed from his vow of silence, gush forth about how he would always be available for baby-sitting as he could perfectly well take a baby with him to work, and felt at once jealous of his attention and selfish for feeling that way. She picked listlessly at the pudding on her plate when her spoon hit metal, and with a sinking feeling she instantly knew which charm she had found: the ring.

Everyone was still talking about Bill and Fleur’s family, having covered the baby’s due date and moved on to childproofing the family’s house for a baby who would, of course, be mobile and inquisitive and excessively intelligent in no time. Her heart racing, Petunia slipped the ring charm carefully onto Percy’s plate, now thankful for the cramped space that meant there was only a small distance between place settings. No one seemed to notice. She sighed with relief—she was really not eager to have any conversations about her own marital status, current or future. 

She had acted not a moment too soon. Hardly a minute had passed before Percy was counting on his fingers.

“You said there were six,” he said. “So who has the last one?”

There was a general searching rummaging through pudding slices, Petunia joining in for show, before Arthur spotted the ring on Percy’s plate. The boy blushed lightly from his neck to his hairline but looked pleased as punch.

“Have you and Audrey set a date yet?” Charlie inquired through the good-natured hooting from Harry, Ron and George at the opposite end of the table. “Just so I know when I’ll have to be home.”

“Not yet.” Percy cleared his throat. “We’ve talked about July.” 

At Arthur’s behest, everyone rose to abandon the depleted dinner table and took their glasses of brandy or wine to the living-room. Petunia, still feeling like an outsider and uneasy in the presence of unwashed dishes, started putting away the remains of the food and ferrying the plates and glasses and silverware to the excessively tiny space beside the kitchen sink, only pausing to put the kettle on. She started scraping the worst of the leftovers from the plates into the bin, but when she was about halfway through and turned around to exchange a scraped-off plate for a new one, she almost bumped into Arthur hovering anxiously nearby. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he said. “They’ll keep overnight, just come and join us.”

“Overnight?” Petunia could not contain a scandalised snort. “Absolutely not, that’s completely unhygienic. Just let me get this done, I’ll be right there.”

“You’re our guest,” Arthur insisted and took the plate from her hands, placing it in the sink. Petunia took up the next one.

“It’s the least I can do,” she said. “Please.”

“All right then, we’ll do it together.” Arthur pointed his wand at the sink and water began to gush out from the end of it, rinsing the plates. When the basin was full he helped her with the rest. The lively conversation in the living-room was now amazingly amicable and punctuated here and there by bouts of laughter. Judging from stray remarks, someone had broken out a pack of cards and a game was in progress. All Petunia could think about was that she was having the strangest Christmas on her first year away from her own family ever since she had acquired one. For nearly twenty years there had been little change to her Christmas routine: after Dudley opened his presents (and Harry, too, when he was not away at Hogwarts) in the morning, everyone mostly ate until it was time to go to bed. Apart from herself, she realised, who was busy doing exactly what she was doing now: dishes. But now she was doing them with Arthur. No one had ever offered to help her before, and she had not expected or needed anyone to, but this was quite nice. Very nice. 

It took them only minutes to finish the dirtiest ones, and then Arthur poured her a glass of brandy and gently but firmly steered her into the living-room. Seats were at a premium, so Charlie vacated the sofa for Petunia’s use and, to her astonishment, unceremoniously duplicated one of the armchairs for his own. Arthur measured the sofa with his gaze, considered George who was nominally occupying the other end of it by lounging against the armrest, and squeezed himself between his son and Petunia. As she took a sip to hide the heat on her face, she surprised Ron glaring at her with a frankly murderous expression. What Christmas taboo had she violated now? Perhaps Arthur’s youngest son felt very strongly that finding dirty dishes still on the table on Boxing Day really made Christmas.

“Dad,” said Percy, swallowing the biscuit he had been chewing. “I’ve been wondering… as I’m sure have others… what will you do with the house? Are you planning to continue living here?”

“No,” Arthur said decisively. “I’ve realised I can’t. It’s much too big for me, and... too quiet.” He sipped his brandy. “I haven’t decided yet.” He gave Petunia the briefest twinkling glance under the cover of sipping from his brandy. “I’m glad you brought this up, Percy. Do  _you_  want to live here?”

“No! That is, thank you, but, well, it  _i_ _s_ quite large…” Percy stammered. “I only thought that maybe Fleur and Bill, with the baby coming and everything…”

“That’s a very good idea. Do you want it?” Arthur lifted his eyebrows at Bill and Fleur, who shared a look. They had to have discussed the idea between themselves, it was only reasonable, Petunia reflected. 

“Actually, we’d love it,” Bill said. “The cottage is great, but here we’d be closer to the village, and have plenty of room. We’d promise to host all family parties, too. But if someone else wants this place, that’s fine, too, the cottage is all right until we can buy another house.”

“Good show! Anyone else with an opinion?” Arthur asked, looking round at his children. “Charlie? George?”

“Wha?” George blinked, momentarily roused.

“Never mind, you live above the shop anyway…” Arthur rolled his eyes. “Ginny, Ron, what do you think?”

Completely out of nowhere, Ron slammed his empty wine glass down on the tiny round table at his elbow and sprang up.

“What do I think? I think you should stop snogging other women when Mum’s been gone for less than a year!”

Total silence fell. Everyone gaped at Ron, who turned a blotchy, aggressive red. Petunia froze with her glass halfway to her lips and felt herself breaking out in a cold sweat. She did not dare look at Arthur, who said nothing, presumably only gaped along with everyone else.

“We saw you and  _her_ ,” Ron continued and pointed an accusing finger at Petunia, “in the shed earlier. You’re being a pig, Dad! What would Mum say!”

Petunia silently let out the breath she had been holding and stood up on trembling legs. This could not be happening,  _must_  not be happening, the children  _must_  not find out this way… and she could not face them now that they had. She was probably red as a beet and her head felt like it would split open at any second. 

“Excuse me.” She got up, not looking at anyone, and almost ran from the room. She gazed longingly at the front door, but all her things were in Percy’s room so she headed for the stairs. She would pack and then ask Arthur to take her home.

“Pet, wait!” Arthur’s voice rang out but she kept going, already ashamed of herself for not staying. She couldn’t bear to be in that room, everyone staring at her in shock and betrayal, the traitor in their midst. She shouldn’t have come here, they should have been more careful, they should have waited… 

“You call that woman PET?!?” came Ron’s outraged howl from behind her back.

“Ron, that's enough!” That was Bill’s voice, cut off by Arthur’s furious “Ronald Weasley, your behaviour’s completely unacceptable! You’re grounded!”

“I can’t be grounded, I don’t even live here anymore!” Ron shouted. 

The yelling continued while Petunia, still shaking, shut the door of the guest room and began to pack her sparse luggage into her bag. The scene downstairs kept playing over and over in her head, especially Ron’s scandalised face. They had been seen in the shed, kissing. The window—of course. They should have had the presence of mind to move away from the window or turn out the light. They had got careless, and this was the price.

There was a knock on the door. Probably Fleur come to offer support, or Harry to be disdainful, or even Ron to continue screaming at her. She ignored it.

“Petunia? It’s me.” Arthur sounded extremely subdued. Petunia hastily opened the door and a harried-looking Arthur slipped inside, closing the door behind himself. From downstairs, she could still hear yelling.

“I can’t apologise enough for Ron’s behaviour,” he said, leaned against the door and rubbed his face with both hands. “That was completely inexcusable. How dare he treat you like that!”

Petunia took off her nicer shoes, put them in the bag on top of the clothes and zipped up the bag. All done. The dishes could stay, Arthur would get them for her later or, if not, she could get new ones. Somehow.

“Can you please take me home?” she asked in a small voice. 

Arthur looked around, apparently only now noticing her packed bag and the wardrobe empty of her clothes, and his face crumpled.

“Oh, Pet, please don’t go,” he moaned. “They’ll settle down eventually, it’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. You know it isn’t.”

“It had better be, or they can all sleep in the chicken coops for all I care.” Arthur grimaced in an embarrassed way. “Anyway, after all that wine and brandy I can’t Apparate anywhere, it’s too dangerous.”

“What?” Petunia swallowed. “How is it dangerous?”

“Not normally,” Arthur hastened to reassure her. “But you wouldn’t drive a car after two glasses of wine and one… or two… of brandy, would you.”

Petunia sank onto the flowery bedspread and could not contain a sob. She was stuck here! Unless she walked to the nearest train station and happened upon a train, she had no way of getting home to London. Now she would have to spend the night here and have breakfast downstairs before she could leave, and be the subject of stares and cold shoulders.

“Pet, I’m so sorry you have to go through this…” Arthur sat down beside her on the bed and put his arm around her. Petunia lay her head on his shoulder and inhaled deeply; his robes smelled of Christmas, gingerbread and brandy, with a touch of that ever-present scent of engine oil. A door banged downstairs and Arthur flinched.

“I’m sorry I left you alone down there,” she said. He made a  _pfft_  noise. “What did you say to them?”

“Apart from telling them they were being childish and thanking Bill for being a voice of reason? Nothing.” He cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “I, er, didn’t know what to tell them, frankly. About us.”

She had thought herself through with big feelings for the night, because after what had happened downstairs, what could possibly move her to feel any emotion? She had been wrong—her stomach dropped down into her toes at his words. Inside the circle of his arm she went completely still, barely breathing.

“I know you don’t…” He paused, looking for words. “After that summer, I couldn’t presume to think that you’d trust me again, that my heart was something you wanted anymore. And you said, at Hogwarts, that what we’d had before the war was only about the past, a nostalgic fling maybe, and I haven’t really let myself think too much about what we’ve had since then.” His hand sought out hers, their fingers twining together not entirely consciously. “But here’s the thing… I love you. I always did, regardless of… of everything.” 

It was as though her body had suddenly filled with sparkles and her skin tingled. She turned her head slightly to hear his every word. 

“I know you don’t feel the same, but I don’t mind,” he continued, stroking her wrist with his thumb without looking at her. “Not much. I just want you to know that I’m willing to play any part in your life that you’ll let me.”

“I lied.” She had to say it three times before the words would come out audibly, but then they burst out of her like ketchup from a blocked-up bottle suddenly unblocked. “I lied to you at Hogwarts, and before the war. But I lied to myself more, because it would have been unfair and painful and probably useless to be honest. I had no choice in what could happen, and you weren’t free to choose, either, so I kept telling myself this… this story that wasn’t true. And then after the war, now, you’re still grieving, and it would have been  _quite_  unfair and painful and still useless to tell you how I felt.” She drew a breath and only just prevented herself from confessing that she had also wanted to give him a way out without her having to hear him say he did not love her. “Because I do love you, Arthur, I just can’t help it, even though it would be so much easier if I didn’t.”

Arthur opened and closed his mouth a few times, grasping for words. Finally he said: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything I’ve put you through. I wasn’t any less free to make hard choices than you.”

“It wasn’t the same, and you know it.” Petunia squeezed his fingers.  _Because I no longer loved Vernon,_  she thought ruefully,  _and you loved Molly._  “But it wasn’t our time, that’s all.”

“And now it is—it’s finally the right time for  _us_.” Arthur raised her hand to his lips, then turned to her. She could feel his breath on her cheek, the warmth of his skin on her own, and she shivered with the swell of quiet joy inside her. The past was gone, and to much of it she bade good riddance. For the first time in years and years, she felt she could glimpse some sort of future.

What with one thing and another, it was almost an hour before their conversation could continue, now with them lying naked and intertwined on the narrow bed, both keeping the other from falling over the side. He stroked her hair with a tenderness she now understood.

“Do you want to go back downstairs?” he asked.

She shook her head against his shoulder. 

They were silent for a time.

“What do you want?” he asked next.

“Can’t we just stay here?”

“I meant in the slightly longer term,” he chuckled and shifted to look at her. “The thing that’s been waiting for nineteen years is happening, and here’s me not sure what exactly that is. So I’m asking you.”

“I want…” How strange to think about what  _she_  wanted. She was much more used to navigating the rocky shores of others’ wants and various insurmountable obstacles instead of trying to find the harbour where she herself wanted to go. “Just now, I want things to be as they are,” she finally said. “I don’t want to have to hide, and I would like to see you more often, but otherwise… I’m happy this way, right now.”

“And I’m happy if you’re happy. So, sod the children and carry on, and no more hiding?”

Petunia snorted with laughter. “Silly man. We can’t rub their noses in it.”

“Thing is, I never thought I had the right to dictate who they might love, so I’ll be jinxed if they’re going to have a say in my love life,” he said indignantly.

“I only meant that your youngest are hardly more than children, and it’s too sudden. Just think about what Ron just said.”

“What about Harry? How do you think he’s taking this?”

Petunia grimaced. “It’s not going to make him dislike me any more, or less.”

They lay there quietly after that, with only desultory snatches of conversation between them, revelling in their warm closeness. Now and then steps passed the door as the others climbed the stairs to their beds or, as in the case of George, apparently half-crawled and half-crashed, helped into his room by Ron and Harry. Percy’s old bed really was too narrow for both of them to actually sleep in, so they reluctantly parted for the rest of the night and Arthur sneaked off across the landing. 

Thinking about him and about what the future would bring, Petunia fell into deep sleep with a smile on her face.


End file.
